Sleepless Since Sherlock
by littlexkiller
Summary: Sherlock's been dead for two years and Mrs Hudson's gone with the wind. With no cases to distract him, it all gets a little too much. There comes a time when even the soldier cannot soldier on; though he is breathing, he is not alive. Then comes the Doctor, who shows him all there is to live (and die honourably) for. A new game is afoot - to salvage John's mind from the wreckage.


_**A/N: Dedicated to my baes (I have no other way to competently describe their worth to me after this hiatus) daisy-chains-and-bowties, gingersunlights, book-thievery and MiniSouffleCafe-UrbanAuthor. I love you all and hope you enjoy the feels, because they're coming your way very fast anyway :P**_

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><p><span>Chapter One<span>: It's Time

_Two years, Sherlock. Two years since you flew away - down, down, down to the condemnation that London roads bring when you meet at terminal velocity. That's a long time to be alone._

John Watson stood on Blackfriar Bridge, face angled away from the barrage of raindrops shattering off the surface of his skin like glass. If not for the rain and the darkness of the midnight a few hours past, it would have been a picturesque wash of red over the ebb and flow of the Thames; but the greyscale of the storm ate away at the saturation of colours until all he could see was a dull flash beneath him as he cast his gaze downwards. Down, down, down to the condemnation London waters bring. Such a beautiful place to go after such an ugly life. It would be quiet, like one hand slipping into another. A small exchange of gifts. A life for death.

Or not death, but life. In swooped the TARDIS, deep blue door open with a strange tweed-clad mad reaching desperately for John with a strained expression. "John Watson!" the Doctor shouted over the wind, "I need to speak to you!"

The soldier looked up in confusion towards the voice. It was coming from a box that was somehow hovering with no visible engines, rotor blades or noise. He couldn't believe the sight.

"John, listen to me, please!" the man shouted again, desperation cracking his voice. "You can't go, not like this. Your death should be so much more honourable than jumping off a bridge. Don't hold your breath, John. I know you're panicking right now, and it feels like you can't breathe, or that you shouldn't, but you can. I know you can because I learned that I could too, over this lifetime. Breathing means living, and living is the best thing you can do right now. It's all you need to do."

"How do you know who I am?" John shouted back. "Why would you care?"

"I just care about you," said the Doctor simply, "I care that you've been sleepless for two years and that your new therapist has an undecipherable eastern European accent. I care that you haven't loved since before you were deployed and that you laugh just a little too heartily every time, because you're terrified that if you stop, you won't be able to laugh again. And you know what? You will. I swear it on my lives, Dr John Watson, you will be happy once more."

Tears streaming down John's face and more than a little confused, he nodded slowly before reaching upwards, towards the madman in his flying blue box. Spinning manically through the stormy air, there was a scrabble of wet hands sliding, then catching sleeves before the Doctor was able to swing the soldier with all his might into the safety of the console room and slammed the door shut. Breathing hard and red in the face, the Time Lord pulled the considerably smaller human into firm embrace. Whether the Doctor was hugging him for comfort or restraining him from doing any further damage to himself, one could not be sure. But it seemed to be effective on both fronts, and John said nothing to the similarly silent stranger.

The Doctor got up quietly and spoke, barely above a whisper, "Come with me. Let's get you clean and warm." John nodded numbly before following him, too shocked and sad to take in the depth of the interior of this strange box. Pausing in front of the bathroom, the Doctor spoke again.

"I'm the Doctor and this is my TARDIS. I'm afraid it probably won't make much sense to you at the moment, but I'm a Time Lord. I travel through time with this very machine you are standing on. We can go anywhere you like – any time, any place. Or most of them, anyway. Now, go get yourself showered. Bedroom should be the first on the right." The human soldier nodded slowly, not quite understanding but accepting this awkward man who saved him. Once washing off the rain and the trauma of what had nearly happened, he fell asleep within moments.

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><p>The following morning as he transitioned between the lands of dream and reality, he heard a woman's voice singing Mumford &amp; Sons from a little way off. <em>Was she here the whole time<em>? he wondered. Throwing back the fluffy, deep blue quilt and various mismatched blankets, he tiptoed gingerly into the hallway in the oversized pajamas the Doctor had lent him.

And of course the second he turned the corner, he smacked right into a petite brunette, sending souffle mixture in every direction. Swearing under his breath, he wiped the thick beige liquid off his face before offering her a hand. Upon closer inspection, she was a beautiful woman, all chestnut curls and fitting red dress with big doe eyes staring up at heart panged for Mary back home. She would be worried sick.

"I'm so sorry," the lady blurted quickly, "didn't realise the Doctor had a visitor. Like... not this century anyway." John smiled awkwardly at her strange words and faint, but distinct Blackpool lilt. _Does everyone here talk like they've lived for millennia? _he wondered, stretching out his hand in introduction. "I'm Doctor John Watson, and the Doctor, uh, saved me yesterday. Saved me from a very dangerous place indeed." She nodded quickly, like she knew exactly what he was talking about. Like she'd been there. "I know who you are. I'm Clara, by the way. I know all about what happened this morning. Are you okay now?"

"Yeah, I suppose," he muttered, "did he tell you what happened?"

She grinned. "Nah. Dreamed about it. Happens every damn time his timeline changes. I hear all about it in my sleep. Poor you, I barely survived my own dear mum's passing. How did you get through your best friend's, if I may ask?"

John's eyes clouded over and his forehead furrowed deeply.

"I'm sorry, you don't have to answer that Dr Watson," she apologised, hand twitching like she was trying not to smack herself in the head. "It's okay," he reassured her.

"Is it really, though?"

"I guess not. But I don't remember much of last night anyway. He said some pretty weird things."

"Yeah, well... I wish I could tell you that he's just mad, which he _so_ is by the way, but it's not that. This literally is everything he said it was."

John stared. "You – You're saying this is a... some sort of... time machine, basically?"

"Mhmm," she hummed cheerfully, "been travellin' with him for a couple years now."

"You're barking mad. Both of you. Time machine? That's not even physically possible."

Clara laughed knowingly. "But it is," she insisted.

"I doubt it."

"I'll show you then. Come along, Dr Watson."


End file.
